Mary Poppins: A Woman of Many Personalities | Academic About mary, poppins, review, character, analysis, reading, book, movie, film, musical, stage and play Report Abuse Home > Nonfiction > Academic > Mary Poppins: A Woman of Many Personalities Mary Poppins: A Woman of Many Personalities By shelbytakespix , ghjkl;, FL Image Credit: Elaina V., Canton, OH The author's comments: This is a character analysis and a comparison of Mary Poppins' relationships with the Banks children, Bert, and Mr. Banks and how these relationships change within the book, film, and stage adaptations. “If you want to find Cherry-Tree Lane all you have to do is ask the Policeman at the cross-roads. He will push his helmet slightly to one side, scratch his head thoughtfully, and then he will point his huge white-gloved finger and say: ‘First to your right, second to your left, sharp right again, and you’re there. Good-morning.’” (Travers 2). These are the directions any regular nanny would follow.

However, in the case of a certain Mary Poppins, air is the most suitable path to 17 Cherry-Tree Lane. She knocks on the door only to be greeted by a gruff Mr. Banks. Four children run hectically behind him. A charismatic screever, Bert, draws life-like illustrations on the pavement if the weather is fine or sells matches if the weather is bad. How Mary Poppins interacts with each of these characters varies depending on the adaptation of the story. Her actions and interactions also help to set the mood and tone of the adaptation. In P.L Travers’s novel Mary Poppins, the titular character is portrayed as a grim, ugly old woman. However, in the film and stage adaptations of the story, Mary Poppins is portrayed in a different light. Like her personality and appearance, Mary Poppins’ relationship with the children, Bert, and Mr. Banks varies in the three works which results in significant differences between the adaptations. Mary Poppins’ most notable relationship is that which she has with the children. In the original book, Mary Poppins is portrayed as an ugly, older woman who denies she is magical but does not try to hide it at all.

She is known by other magical creatures as “The Great Exception” because she maintained the magical abilities all children have. For example, she is capable of communicating with animals. When the children mention her magical powers, Mary Poppins denies them sternly and punishes the children when they acknowledge them. In the book, there are four children: Jane, Michael, John and Barbara. Mary Poppins only takes Jane and Michael on her adventures because the twins, John and Barbara, are too young. She later brings the twins with her, Jane, and Michael on their adventures in the second book, Mary Poppins Comes Back, which was published a year after Mary Poppins in 1935. However, in the film and stage adaptations, there are only two Banks children: Jane and Michael. Unlike her stern personality in the book, Mary Poppins is stern but still maintains a gentle and admirable disposition. Jane and Michael, prior to Mary Poppins’ arrival, sing a tune outlining the perfect nanny. They sing: Have a cheery disposition. Rosy cheeks. No warts. Play games, all sorts. You must be kind you must be pretty, very sweet and fairly pretty. Take us on outings, give us treats. Sing songs bring sweets.

Never be cross or cruel. Never feed us Custer oil or gruel. Bleh! Love us as a song and daughter and never smell of Farley water… Hurry nanny. Many thanks. Sincerely, Jane and Michael Banks. (Sherman) Mary Poppins is firm when the children misbehave and try to take advantage of her. However, when they are not feeling their best or just need a little magic in their life, Mary Poppins’ lively personality comes to life in musical numbers such as “A Spoonful of Sugar”, when the children refuse to take their icky medicine, and in “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”, when the children jump into a dreamland through one of Bert’s street illustrations. Mary Poppins’ personality becomes a mix of both that of her book and film character in Mary Poppins: The Musical. In the stage adaptation of the book, Mary Poppins is a self absorbed, loving nanny who wants nothing but the best for the two Banks children, Jane and Michael. She thinks herself as “practically perfect in every way” (Sherman) as she states in the catchy song “Practically Perfect”.

The children in this adaptation have worse behavior than they do in the film. Unlike in the book and film, Mary uses her magical powers to punish the children. She does so in “Temper, Temper (Playing the Game)” when she brings Jane and Michael’s toys to life that they have been mistreating to teach, through fear, them to treat their toys with care. These are few of the many examples of how Mary Poppins’ relationship with the children is different in the book, film, and stage adaptation. Another relationship that is evident in the book, film, and stage adaptation is that between Mary Poppins and Bert. In the original book, Bert is Mary Poppins’ best friend and one of the few people she is nice to, the others being Mrs. Corry and Nellie-Rubina. Bert is a charismatic screever and Matchman. When the weather is nice, he draws life-like illustrations on the pavement and when the weather is bad he sells matches off of street corners. It becomes evident that Bert has feelings for Mary Poppins when they go out together on her second Tuesday off. However, after that they never go out together again.

In the film adaptation, Bert’s affection towards Mary Poppins is first made clear in the second song, “Jolly Holiday”, in which he sings: Ain’t it a glorious day? Right as a morning in May… I feel like I could fly. Have you ever seen the grass so green or a bluer sky? Oh it’s a jolly holiday with Mary. Mary makes your heart so light. When the day is grey and ordinary, Mary makes the sun shine bright. Oh happiness is blooming all around her. The daffodils are smiling at the dove. When Mary holds your hand, you feel so grand. Your heart starts beating like a big brass band. Oh it’s a Jolly Holiday with Mary. No wonder that it’s Mary that we like. (Sherman) At the end of the song, Mary Poppins sings back to him telling him that “though you’re just a diamond in the rough Bert, underneath your blood is blue”. These are the first few hints the audience gets that there is something more than just a friendly relationship between Mary Poppins and Bert. The song introduces that Mary Poppins and Bert have already known each other for a while.

Later, in “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”, Mary Poppins and Bert are playful and flirtatious. They are also somewhat affectionate in “Chim Chim Cher-ee”. Unfortunately, Mary Poppins and Bert are never more than friends in the film. In the stage adaptation, Mary Poppins is quite aware of Bert’s feelings for her. They still sing “Jolly Holiday” together as one of the first songs during Act I. Throughout the musical, it is evident that Mary Poppins is aware of Bert’s feelings for her. She ignores his affection throughout the entire musical. Many audiences like the idea of Mary Poppins and Bert together as a couple but evidently Mary Poppins does not. Mary Poppins also has a very subtle relationship with Mr. Banks, more notably in the book and musical than in the movie. Mr. Banks’ personality remains consistent throughout the three adaptations. He is a disciplined man who works at the Dawes Tomes Mousley Grubbs Fidelity Fiduciary Bank in London and would probably be known as a Type A personality in modern times. He lives at 17 Cherry-Tree Lane with his wife and children.

He dismisses the “Votes for Women” movement that his wife is an avid participant of and treats his wife, children, and servants as assets rather than people. He makes these opinions known in his song “The Life I Lead”. His ideas were portrayed in the musical in “Being Mr. Banks”. The relationship between Mary Poppins and Mr. Banks changes as Mary Poppins’ personality changes. In the book, as well as the musical, Mr. Banks had a vicious nanny, known as Mrs. Andrews, tortures him through his childhood and turns him into the man he grows up to be. When Mary Poppins’ personality is revealed in the book and stage adaptation, it seems that Mr. Banks was looking for a nanny who resembled his childhood nightmare so that his children would, hopefully, grow out of their troublesome behavior and into a more disciplined one, much like that of his. Mrs. Andrews is present in the musical but is only mentioned briefly in the book. She is never mentioned nor is she present in the film adaptation. Mary Poppins’ personality changed subtly, but enough to affect the plot, in the three adaptations of her fun and magical story: book, film, and stage.

She is gruff and cruel in the book. She is kind and gentle, yet stern, in the movie. She snarky and narcissistic with hints of gentleness in the musical. These different personalities affect the different ways in which she interacts with the Banks children, Bert, and Mr. Banks in the book, film, and stage adaptation. So that leaves the question: who is the real Mary Poppins? Is she the gruff woman thought up by P.L. Travers? Is she sweet and kind woman written up by Walt Disney? Or is she the self-absorbed sweetheart adapted to the story by Julian Fellowes. That is a decision left to the audience.? P. L. Travers - Wikiquote P. L. Travers Jump to: navigation , search You do not chop off a section of your imaginative substance and make a book specifically for children , for — if you are honest — you have no idea where childhood ends and maturity begins . It is all endless and all one .

Pamela Lyndon Travers ( August 9 1899 – April 23 1996 ) was a British author, born Helen Lyndon Goff in Maryborough, Queensland, Australia , most famous as the creator of the " Mary Poppins " series of stories. See also Thinking is linking. We pass. But what the bee knows , the wisdom that sustains our passing life — however much we deny or ignore it — that for ever remains. You can ask me anything you like about my work , but I'll never talk about myself . The silky hush of intimate things, fragrant with my fragrance, steal softly down, so loth to rob me of my last dear concealment. From a poem (c. 1920) in the Australian publication The Triad, as quoted in Out of the Sky She Came: The Life of P.L. Travers, Creator of Mary Poppins (1999) by Valerie Lawson, ISBN 0743298160 ] It is clear from Gurdjieff 's writings that hypnotism, mesmerism and various arcane methods of expanding consciousness must have played a large part in the studies of the Seekers of Truth .

None of these processes, however, is to be thought of as having any bearing on what is called Black Magic , which, according to Gurdjieff, "has always one definite characteristic. It is the tendency to use people for some, even the best of aims, without their knowledge and understanding , either by producing in them faith and infatuation or by acting upon them through fear . There is, in fact, neither red, green nor yellow magic . There is " doing ." Only "doing" is magic." Properly to realise the scale of what Gurdjieff meant by magic, one has to remember his continually repeated aphorism, "Only he who can be can do," and its corollary that, lacking this fundamental verb, nothing is "done," things simply "happen." "Gurdjieff" in Man, Myth and Magic : Encyclopedia of the Supernatural (1970) Could it be ... that the hero is one who is willing to set out, take the first step, shoulder something? Perhaps the hero is one who puts his foot upon a path not knowing what he may expect from life but in some way feeling in his bones that life expects something of him.

"The World of the Hero" (1976) A writer is, after all, only half his book . The other half is the reader and from the reader the writer learns . As quoted in The New York Times (2 July 1978) A great friend of mine at the beginning of our friendship (he was himself a poet ) said to me very defiantly, "I have to tell you that I loathe children's books." And I said to him, "Well, won't you just read this just for my sake?" And he said grumpily, "Oh, very well, send it to me." I did, and I got a letter back saying: "Why didn't you tell me? Mary Poppins with her cool green core of sex has me enthralled forever." Interview by Edwina Burness and Jerry Griswold, The Paris Review No. 86 (Winter 1982) “ Myth , Symbol , and Tradition ” was the phrase I originally wrote at the top of the page, for editors like large, cloudy titles. Then I looked at what I had written and, wordlessly, the words reproached me.

I hope I had the grace to blush at my own presumption and their portentousness. How could I, if I lived for a thousand years, attempt to cover more than a hectare of that enormous landscape? So, I let out the air , in a manner of speaking, dwindled to my appropriate size, and gave myself over to that process which, for lack of a more erudite term, I have coined the phrase “ Thinking is linking.” I thought of Kerenyi — “Mythology occupies a higher position in the bios, the Existence, of a people in which it is still alive than poetry, storytelling or any other art.” And of Malinowski — “Myth is not merely a story told, but a reality lived.” And, along with those, the word “Pollen,” the most pervasive substance in the world, kept knocking at my ear. Or rather, not knocking, but humming. What hums? What buzzes? What travels the world? Suddenly I found what I sought. “What the bee knows,” I told myself.

“That is what I’m after.” But even as I patted my back, I found myself cursing, and not for the first time, the artful trickiness of words, their capriciousness, their lack of conscience. Betray them and they will betray you. Be true to them and, without compunction, they will also betray you, foxily turning all the tables, thumbing syntactical noses. For — note bene! — if you speak or write about What The Bee Knows, what the listener, or the reader, will get — indeed, cannot help but get — is Myth, Symbol, and Tradition! You see the paradox ? The words , by their very perfidy — which is also their honorable intention — have brought us to where we need to be. For, to stand in the presence of paradox, to be spiked on the horns of dilemma, between what is small and what is great, microcosm and macrocosm, or, if you like, the two ends of the stick, is the only posture we can assume in front of this ancient knowledge — one could even say everlasting knowledge. "What the Bee Knows" in Parabola : The Magazine of Myth and Tradition, Vol. VI, No.

1 (February 1981); later published in What the Bee Knows : Reflections on Myth, Symbol, and Story (1989) The Sphinx, the Pyramids, the stone temples are, all of them, ultimately, as flimsy as London Bridge; our cities but tents set up in the cosmos . We pass. But what the bee knows , the wisdom that sustains our passing life — however much we deny or ignore it — that for ever remains. What the Bee Knows : Reflections on Myth, Symbol, and Story (1989) The Irish, as a race, have the oral tradition in their blood . A direct question to them is an anathema, but in other cases, a mere syllable of a hero 's name will elicit whole chapters of stories . As quoted in No Word for Time: The Way of the Algonquin People (2001) by Evan T. Pritchard You do not chop off a section of your imaginative substance and make a book specifically for children , for — if you are honest — you have no idea where childhood ends and maturity begins . It is all endless and all one .

As quoted in Sticks and Stones : The Troublesome Success of Children's Literature from Slovenly Peter to Harry Potter (2002) by Jack Zipes You can ask me anything you like about my work, but I'll never talk about myself. As quoted by Valerie Lawson, in an interview: "The Mystic Life of P.L. Travers" (7 May 2003) For me there are no answers, only questions, and I am grateful that the questions go on and on. I don't look for an answer, because I don't think there is one. I'm very glad to be the bearer of a question. Mary Poppins (1934)[ edit ] "How funny ! I've never seen that happen before," said Michael. Such a thing, Jane and Michael knew , had never been done before. …They gazed curiously at the strange new visitor. ISBN 0152017178 Tonight the small are free from the great and the great protect the small We are all made of the same stuff, remember , we of the Jungle , you of the City .

The same substance composes us — the tree overhead, the stone beneath us, the bird , the beast , the star — we are all one , all moving to the same end . Remember that when you no longer remember me, my child . If you want to find Cherry-Tree Lane all you have to do is ask the Policeman at the cross-roads. He will push his helmet slightly to one side, scratch his head thoughtfully, and then he will point his huge white-gloved finger and say: "First to your right, second to your left, sharp right again, and you're there. Good-morning." And sure enough, if you follow his directions exactly, you will be there — right in the middle of Cherry-Tree Lane, where the houses run down one side and the Park runs down the other and the cherry-trees go dancing right down the middle. If you are looking for Number Seventeen — and it is more than likely that you will be, for this book is all about that particular house — you will very soon find it. Ch. 1 "East-Wind" Jane and Michael sat at the window watching for Mr.

Banks to come home, and listening to the sound of the East Wind blowing through the naked branches of the cherry-trees in the Lane. The trees themselves, turning and bending in the half light, looked as though they had gone mad and were dancing their roots out of the ground. "There he is!" said Michael, pointing suddenly to a shape that banged heavily against the gate. Jane peered through the gathering darkness. "That's not Daddy," she said. "It's somebody else." Then the shape, tossed and bent under the wind, lifted the latch of the gate, and they could see that it belonged to a woman, who was holding her hat on with one hand and carrying a bag in the other. As they watched, Jane and Michael saw a curious thing happen. As soon as the shape was inside the gate the wind seemed to catch her up into the air and fling her at the house. It was as though it had flung her first at the gate, waited for her to open it, and then had lifted and thrown her, bag and all, at the front door. The watching children heard a terrific bang, and as she landed the whole house shook. "How funny! I've never seen that happen before," said Michael. Ch.

1 "East-Wind" Presently they saw their Mother coming out of the drawing-room with a visitor following her. Jane and Michael could see that the newcomer had shiny black hair — "Rather like a wooden Dutch doll," whispered Jane. And that she was thin, with large feet and hands, and small, rather peering blue-eyes. "You'll find that they are very nice children," Mrs. Banks was saying. Michael's elbow gave a sharp dig at Jane's ribs. "And that they give no trouble at all," continued Mrs. Banks uncertainly, as if she herself didn't really believe what she was saying. They heard the visitor sniff as though she didn't either. "Now, about reference —" Mrs. Banks went on. "Oh, I make it a rule never to give references," said the other firmly. Ch. 1 "East-Wind" Mrs. Banks did not notice what was happening behind her, but Jane and Michael, watching from the top landing, had an excellent view of the extraordinary thing the visitor now did. Certainly she followed Mrs. Banks upstairs, but not in the usual way.

With her large bag in her hands she slid gracefully up the banisters, and arrived at the landing at the same time as Mrs. Banks. Such a thing, Jane and Michael knew, had never been done before. Down, of course, for they had often done it themselves. But up — never! They gazed curiously at the strange new visitor. Ch. 1 "East-Wind" What I want to know is this: Are the stars gold paper or is the gold paper stars? Jane in Ch. 8 "Mrs. Corry" Tonight the small are free from the great and the great protect the small. Hamadryad, the King Cobra in Ch. 10 "Full-Moon" It may be that to eat and be eaten are the same thing in the end . My wisdom tells me that this is probably so. We are all made of the same stuff, remember , we of the Jungle , you of the City . The same substance composes us — the tree overhead, the stone beneath us, the bird , the beast , the star — we are all one , all moving to the same end . Remember that when you no longer remember me, my child . Hamadryad, the King Cobra in Ch.

10 "Full-Moon" "Bird and beast and stone and star — we are all one , all one —" murmured the Hamadryad, softly folding his hood about him as he himself swayed between the children. "Child and serpent, star and stone — all one." Ch. 10 "Full-Moon" This darkness will not last forever . There will some day come a Fifth of November — or another date, it doesn't matter — when fires will burn in a chain of brightness… Mary Poppins herself had flown away, but the gifts she had brought would remain for always . The Fifth of November is Guy Fawkes' Day in England . In peacetime it is celebrated with bonfires on the greens, fireworks in the parks and the carrying of "guys" through the streets. "Guys" are stuffed, straw figures of unpopular persons; and after they have been shown to everybody they are burnt in the bonfires amid great acclamation. The children black their faces and put on comical clothes, and go about begging for a Penny for the Guy. Only the very meanest people refuse to give pennies and these are always visited by Extreme Bad Luck.

The Original Guy Fawkes was one of the men who took part in the Gunpowder Plot . This was a conspiracy for blowing up King James I and the Houses of Parliament on November 5th, 1605. The plot was discovered, however, before any damage was done. The only result was that King James and his Parliament went on living but Guy Fawkes, poor man, did not. He was executed with the other conspirators. Nevertheless, it is Guy Fawkes who is remembered today and King James who is forgotten. For since that time, the Fifth of November in England, like the Fourth of July in America, has been devoted to Fireworks. From 1605 till 1939 every village green in the shires had a bonfire on Guy Fawkes' Day. NOTE (on Guy Fawkes' Day ) In the village where I live, in Sussex , we made our bonfire in the Vicarage paddock and every year, as soon as it was lit, the Vicar's cow would begin to dance . She danced while the flames rose up to the sky , she danced till the ashes were black and cold.

And the next morning — it was always the same — the Vicar would have no milk for his breakfast. It is strange to think of a simple cow rejoicing at the saving of Parliament so many years ago. NOTE Since 1939, however, there have been no bonfires on the village greens. No fireworks gleam in the blackened parks and the streets are dark and silent. But this darkness will not last forever . There will some day come a Fifth of November — or another date, it doesn't matter — when fires will burn in a chain of brightness from Land's End to John O' Groats . The children will dance and leap about them as they did in the times before. They will take each other by the hand and watch the rockets breaking, and afterwards they will go home singing to the houses full of light... NOTE (on Guy Fawkes' Day, during World War II ) Mary Poppins herself had flown away, but the gifts she had brought would remain for always .. Ch. 8 "The Other Door" We'll never forget you, Mary Poppins! Ch. 8 "The Other Door" The Paris Review interview (1982)[ edit ] I’ve always been interested in the Mother Goddess .

It is only through the ordinary that the extraordinary can make itself perceived . Remember that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty-Dumpty together again. There’s such a tremendous truth in that. Friend Monkey is really my favorite of all my books because the Hindu myth on which it is based is my favorite — the myth of the Monkey Lord who loved so much that he created chaos wherever he went. I’ve always been interested in the Mother Goddess . Not long ago, a young person, whom I don’t know very well, sent a message to a mutual friend that said: “I’m an addict of Mary Poppins , and I want you to ask P. L. Travers if Mary Poppins is not really the Mother Goddess.” So, I sent back a message: “Well, I’ve only recently come to see that. She is either the Mother Goddess or one of her creatures — that is, if we’re going to look for mythological or fairy-tale origins of Mary Poppins.” I’ve spent years thinking about it because the questions I’ve been asked, very perceptive questions by readers, have led me to examine what I wrote. The book was entirely spontaneous and not invented, not thought out.

I never said, “Well, I’ll write a story about Mother Goddess and call it Mary Poppins.” It didn’t happen like that. I cannot summon up inspiration; I myself am summoned. Once, when I was in the United States, I went to see a psychologist . It was during the war when I was feeling very cut off. I thought, Well, these people in psychology always want to see the kinds of things you’ve done, so I took as many of my books as were then written. I went and met the man, and he gave me another appointment. And at the next appointment the books were handed back to me with the words: “You know, you don’t really need me. All you need to do is read your own books.” That was so interesting to me. I began to see, thinking about it, that people who write spontaneously as I do, not with invention, never really read their own books to learn from them. And I set myself to reading them. Every now and then I found myself saying, “But this is true. How did she know?” And then I realized that she is me.

Now I can say much more about Mary Poppins because what was known to me in my blood and instincts has now come up to the surface in my head. It is only through the ordinary that the extraordinary can make itself perceived. I think if she comes from anywhere that has a name , it is out of myth . And myth has been my study and joy ever since — oh, the age, I would think . . . of three. I’ve studied it all my life. No culture can satisfactorily move along its forward course without its myths, which are its teachings, its fundamental dealing with the truth of things, and the one reality that underlies everything. She doesn’t hold back anything from them. When they beg her not to depart, she reminds them that nothing lasts forever. She’s as truthful as the nursery rhymes. Remember that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty-Dumpty together again. There’s such a tremendous truth in that. It goes into children in some part of them that they don’t know, and indeed perhaps we don’t know. But eventually they realize — and that’s the great truth.

My Zen master, because I’ve studied Zen for a long time, told me that every one (and all the stories weren’t written then) of the Mary Poppins stories is in essence a Zen story . And someone else, who is a bit of a Don Juan , told me that every one of the stories is a moment of tremendous sexual passion, because it begins with such tension and then it is reconciled and resolved in a way that is gloriously sensual. … A great friend of mine at the beginning of our friendship (he was himself a poet) said to me very defiantly, “I have to tell you that I loathe children’s books.” And I said to him, “Well, won’t you just read this just for my sake?” And he said grumpily, “Oh, very well, send it to me.” I did, and I got a letter back saying: “Why didn’t you tell me? Mary Poppins with her cool green core of sex has me enthralled forever.” Friend Monkey is really my favorite of all my books because the Hindu myth on which it is based is my favorite — the myth of the Monkey Lord who loved so much that he created chaos wherever he went.

… when you read the Ramayana you’ll come across the story of Hanuman on which I built my version of that very old myth. I love Friend Monkey. I love the story of Hanuman. For many years, it remained in my very blood because he’s someone who loves too much and can’t help it. I don’t know where I first heard of him, but the story remained with me and I knew it would come out of me somehow or other. But I didn’t know what shape it would take. I never wrote my books especially for children. … When I sat down to write Mary Poppins or any of the other books, I did not know children would read them. I’m sure there must be a field of “children’s literature” — I hear about it so often — but sometimes I wonder if it isn’t a label created by publishers and booksellers who also have the impossible presumption to put on books such notes as “from five to seven” or “from nine to twelve.” How can they know when a book will appeal to such and such an age? If you look at other so-called children’s authors, you’ll see they never wrote directly for children.

Though Lewis Carroll dedicated his book to Alice , I feel it was an afterthought once the whole was already committed to paper. Beatrix Potter declared, “I write to please myself!” And I think the same can be said of Milne or Tolkien or Laura Ingalls Wilder . I certainly had no specific child in mind when I wrote Mary Poppins. How could I? If I were writing for the Japanese child who reads it in a land without staircases, how could I have written of a nanny who slides up the banister? If I were writing for the African child who reads the book in Swahili, how could I have written of umbrellas for a child who has never seen or used one? But I suppose if there is something in my books that appeals to children, it is the result of my not having to go back to my childhood; I can, as it were, turn aside and consult it ( James Joyce once wrote, “My childhood bends beside me”). If we’re completely honest, not sentimental or nostalgic, we have no idea where childhood ends and maturity begins. It is one unending thread, not a life chopped up into sections out of touch with one another.

Once, when Maurice Sendak was being interviewed on television a little after the success of Where the Wild Things Are , he was asked the usual questions: Do you have children? Do you like children? After a pause, he said with simple dignity: “I was a child.” That says it all. I make a point of writing , if only a little, every day, as a kind of discipline so that it is not a whim but a piece of work . I read myths and fairy tales and books about them a great deal now, but I very seldom read novels. I find modern novels bore me. I can read Tolstoy and the Russians, but mostly I read comparative mythology and comparative religion. I need matter to carry with me. When I write it’s more a process of listening. I don’t pretend that there is some spirit standing beside me that tells me things. More and more I’ve become convinced that the great treasure to possess is the unknown. I’m going to write, I hope, a lot about that. It’s with my unknowing that I come to the myths. If I came to them knowing, I would have nothing to learn.

But I bring my unknowing, which is a tangible thing, a clear space, something that’s been made room for out of the muddle of ordinary psychic stuff, an empty space. You know C. S. Lewis , whom I greatly admire, said there’s no such thing as creative writing. I’ve always agreed with that and always refuse to teach it when given the opportunity. He said there is, in fact, only one Creator and we mix. That’s our function, to mix the elements He has given us. See how wonderfully anonymous that leaves us? You can’t say, “I did this; this gross matrix of flesh and blood and sinews and nerves did this.” What nonsense! I’m given these things to make a pattern out of. Something gave it to me. I’ve always loved the idea of the craftsman, the anonymous man. For instance, I’ve always wanted my books to be called the work of Anon , because Anon is my favorite literary character. If you look through an anthology of poems that go from the far past into the present time, you’ll see that all the poems signed “Anon” have a very specific flavor that is one flavor all the way through the centuries.

I think, perhaps arrogantly, of myself as “Anon.” I would like to think that Mary Poppins and the other books could be called back to make that change. But I suppose it’s too late for that. Myth, Symbol, and Meaning in Mary Poppins (2007)[ edit ] These men — Yeats , James Stephens , and the rest — had aristocratic minds . For them, the world was not fragmented. An idea did not suddenly grow … all alone and separate. Quotes of Travers from Myth, Symbol, and Meaning in Mary Poppins: The Governess as Provocateur (2007) by Giorgia Grilli These men — Yeats , James Stephens , and the rest — had aristocratic minds . For them, the world was not fragmented. An idea did not suddenly grow … all alone and separate. For them, all things had long family trees. They saw nothing shameful or silly in myths and fairy stories , nor did they shovel them out of sight and some cupboard marked "Only For Children." They were always willing to concede that there was more things in heaven and earth than philosophy dreamed of. They allowed for the unknown. And, as you can imagine, I took great heart from this.

It was Æ who showed me how to look and learn from one's own writing. "Popkins" he said once — he always called her just plain Popkins, whether deliberately mistaking the name or not I never knew. His humor was always subtle — " Popkins had she lived in another age, in the old times to which she certainly belongs, she would undoubtedly have had long golden tresses, a wreath of flowers in one hand , and perhaps a spear in the other. Her eyes would have been like the sea , her nose comely, and on her feet winged sandals. But, this age being the Kali Yuga , as the Indus call it — in our terms, the Iron Age — she comes in habiliments suited to it." Ch. 2, p. 38 The true fairytales … come straight out of myth; they are, as it were, minuscule reaffirmation of myths, or perhaps the myth made accessible to the local folky mind. One might say that fairytales are the myths falling into time and locality … is the same stuff, all the essentials are there, it is small, but perfect. Not minimized, not to be made digestible for children. Ch.

2, p. 39 Quotes about Travers[ edit ] Mary Poppins arrives with the wind , and intervenes in the lives of ordinary humans , making magic , but never admitting that it has taken place. ~ Mark Bostridge Travers's Mary Poppins was a natural phenomena , ancient as mountain ranges, on first-name terms with the primal powers of the universe , adored and respected by everything that saw the world as it was. And she was a mystery . … philosophically, I suspect now, the universe of Mary Poppins underpins all my writing … ~ Neil Gaiman Mary Poppins threatens to leave at a point of time which only she controls. She tells her charges she will be with them until the wind changes or until her necklace breaks. She never tells them where she has come from, where she intends to go or who she really is. But she leaves many clues. ~ Valerie Lawson Mary Poppins arrives with the wind , and intervenes in the lives of ordinary humans , making magic , but never admitting that it has taken place. She understands the language of animals and birds , and between her visits to mortals returns to some secret source.

Although the Poppins books have much in common with other works of children's literature — all the way back to the early 19th century and ETA Hoffmann 's inspiration of making toys come alive — Travers was adamant that she didn't write specifically for children , and that there was no such thing as children's books . Poppins, she said, "had come up of the same well of nothingness as the poetry , myths and legends that had absorbed me all my writing life ." This was something else that connected Travers to Disney , who maintained that his films were not directed at children, but at the innocence within us all. Sample text for Library of Congress control number 2006277792 Sample text for Mary Poppins / P.L. Travers ; illustrated by Mary Shepard. Bibliographic record and links to related information available from the Library of Congress catalog Copyrighted sample text provided by the publisher and used with permission. May be incomplete or contain other coding. East ­Wind If you want to find Cherry­-­Tree Lane all you have to do is ask the Policeman at the cross­-­roads.

He will push his helmet slightly to one side, scratch his head thoughtfully, and then he will point his huge white­-­gloved finger and say: “First to your right, second to your left, sharp right again, and you’re there. Good­-­morning.” And sure enough, if you follow his directions exactly, you will be there—right in the middle of Cherry­-­Tree Lane, where the houses run down one side and the Park runs down the other and the cherry­-­trees go dancing right down the ­middle. If you are looking for Number Seventeen—and it is more than likely that you will be, for this book is all about that particular house—you will very soon find it. To begin with, it is the smallest house in the Lane. And besides that, it is the only one that is rather dilapidated and needs a coat of paint. But Mr. Banks, who owns it, said to Mrs. Banks that she could have either a nice, clean, comfortable house or four children. But not both, for he couldn’t afford ­it. And after Mrs.

Banks had given the matter some consideration she came to the conclusion that she would rather have Jane, who was the eldest, and Michael, who came next, and John and Barbara, who were Twins and came last of all. So it was settled, and that was how the Banks family came to live at Number Seventeen, with Mrs. Brill to cook for them, and Ellen to lay the tables, and Robertson Ay to cut the lawn and clean the knives and polish the shoes and, as Mr. Banks always said, “to waste his time and my ­money.” And, of course, besides these there was Katie Nanna, who doesn’t really deserve to come into the book at all because, at the time I am speaking of, she had just left Number ­Seventeen. “Without by your leave or a word of warning. And what am I to do?” said Mrs. ­Banks. “Advertise, my dear,” said Mr. Banks, putting on his shoes. “And I wish Robertson Ay would go without a word of warning, for he has again polished one boot and left the other untouched. I shall look very ­lopsided.” “That,” said Mrs.

Banks, “is not of the least importance. You haven’t told me what I’m to do about Katie ­Nanna.” “I don’t see how you can do anything about her since she has disappeared,” replied Mr. Banks, “But if it were me—I mean I—well, I should get somebody to put in the Morning Paper the news that Jane and Michael and John and Barbara Banks (to say nothing of their Mother) require the best possible Nannie at the lowest possible wage and at once. Then I should wait and watch for the Nannies to queue up outside the front gate, and I should get very cross with them for holding up the traffic and making it necessary for me to give the policeman a shilling for putting him to so much trouble. Now I must be off. Whew, it’s as cold as the North Pole. Which way is the wind ­blowing?” And as he said that, Mr. Banks popped his head out of the window and looked down the Lane to Admiral Boom’s house at the corner. This was the grandest house in the Lane, and the Lane was very proud of it because it was built exactly like a ship.

There was a flagstaff in the garden, and on the roof was a gilt weathercock shaped like a ­telescope. “Ha!” said Mr. Banks, drawing in his head very quickly. “Admiral’s telescope says East Wind. I thought as much. There is frost in my bones. I shall wear two overcoats.” And he kissed his wife absentmindedly on one side of her nose and waved to the children and went away to the ­City. Now, the City was a place where Mr. Banks went every day—except Sundays, of course, and Bank Holidays—and while he was there he sat on a large chair in front of a large desk and made money. All day long he worked, cutting out pennies and shillings and half­-­crowns and threepenny­-­bits. And he brought them home with him in his little black bag. Sometimes he would give some to Jane and Michael for their money­-­boxes, and when he couldn’t spare any he would say, “The Bank is broken,” and they would know he hadn’t made much money that ­day. Well, Mr. Banks went off with his black bag, and Mrs.

Banks went into the drawing­-­room and sat there all day long writing letters to the papers and begging them to send some Nannies to her at once as she was waiting; and upstairs in the Nursery, Jane and Michael watched at the window and wondered who would come. They were glad Katie Nanna had gone, for they had never liked her. She was old and fat and smelt of barley­-­water. Anything, they thought, would be better than Katie Nanna—if not much ­better. When the afternoon began to die away behind the Park, Mrs. Brill and Ellen came to give them their supper and to bath the Twins. And after supper Jane and Michael sat at the window watching for Mr. Banks to come home, and listening to the sound of the East Wind blowing through the naked branches of the cherry­-­trees in the Lane. The trees themselves, turning and bending in the half light, looked as though they had gone mad and were dancing their roots out of the ­ground. “There he is!” said Michael, pointing suddenly to a shape that banged heavily against the gate. Jane peered through the gathering ­darkness. “That’s not Daddy,” she said.

“It’s somebody ­else.” Then the shape, tossed and bent under the wind, lifted the latch of the gate, and they could see that it belonged to a woman, who was holding her hat on with one hand and carrying a bag in the other. As they watched, Jane and Michael saw a curious thing happen. As soon as the shape was inside the gate the wind seemed to catch her up into the air and fling her at the house. It was as though it had flung her first at the gate, waited for her to open it, and then had lifted and thrown her, bag and all, at the front door. The watching children heard a terrific bang, and as she landed the whole house ­shook. “How funny! I’ve never seen that happen before,” said ­Michael. “Let’s go and see who it is!” said Jane, and taking Michael’s arm she drew him away from the window, through the Nursery and out on to the landing. From there they always had a good view of anything that happened in the front ­hall. Presently they saw their Mother coming out of the drawing­-­room with a visitor following her.

Jane and Michael could see that the newcomer had shiny black hair—“Rather like a wooden Dutch doll,” whispered Jane. And that she was thin, with large feet and hands, and small, rather peering blue ­eyes. “You’ll find that they are very nice children,” Mrs. Banks was ­saying. Michael’s elbow gave a sharp dig at Jane’s ­ribs. “And that they give no trouble at all,” continued Mrs. Banks uncertainly, as if she herself didn’t really believe what she was saying. They heard the visitor sniff as though she didn’t ­either. “Now, about reference—” Mrs. Banks went ­on. “Oh, I make it a rule never to give references,” said the other firmly. Mrs. Banks ­stared. “But I thought it was usual,” she said. “I mean—I understood people always ­did.” “A very old­-­fashioned idea, to my mind,” Jane and Michael heard the stern voice say. “Very old­-­fashioned. Quite out of date, as you might ­say.” Now, if there was one thing Mrs. Banks did not like, it was to be thought old­-­fashioned.

She just couldn’t bear it. So she said ­quickly: “Very well, then. We won’t bother about them. I only asked, of course, in case you—er—required it. The nursery is upstairs—” And she led the way towards the staircase, talking all the time, without stopping once. And because she was doing that Mrs. Banks did not notice what was happening behind her, but Jane and Michael, watching from the top landing, had an excellent view of the extraordinary thing the visitor now ­did. Certainly she followed Mrs. Banks upstairs, but not in the usual way. With her large bag in her hands she slid gracefully up the banisters, and arrived at the landing at the same time as Mrs. Banks. Such a thing, Jane and Michael knew, had never been done before. Down, of course, for they had often done it themselves. But up—never! They gazed curiously at the strange new ­visitor. Copyright © 1981 by P. L. ­Travers Copyright 1934 by P. L. ­Travers Copyright renewed 1962 by P. L. ­Travers All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the ­publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887­-­6777. Library of Congress subject headings for this publication: Fantasy. Mary Poppins and Mary Poppins Comes Back Mary Poppins and Mary Poppins Comes Back The world's most beloved nanny is bound for Broadway! Format: Hardcover Reviews About the Book Who can slide up banisters, banish naughtiness with a swift "Spit-spot," and turn a make-believe sidewalk drawing into a lovely day in the park? Mary Poppins, of course! This omnibus edition combines the two Mary Poppins classics, Mary Poppins and Mary Poppins Comes Back, that inspired both the 1964 movie and the Broadway musical.

With the original, iconic illustrations by Mary Shepard and the heartwarming stories that have brought laughter to children all over the world, this book is chock-full of all things magical! Subjects About the Author P. L. Travers P. L. Travers (1899-1996) was a drama critic, travel essayist, reviewer, lecturer, and the creator of Mary Poppins. Ms. Travers wrote several other books for adults and children, but it is for the character of Mary Poppins that she is best remembered. Mary Shepard (1910-2000) was the daughter of Ernest Shepard, illustrator of the Winnie the Pooh books and The Wind in the Willows. She illustrated P. L. Travers's Mary Poppins books for more than fifty years. Excerpts East ­Wind If you want to find Cherry­-­Tree Lane all you have to do is ask the Policeman at the cross­-­roads.

He will push his helmet slightly to one side, scratch his head thoughtfully, and then he will point his huge white­-­gloved finger and say: “First to your right, second to your left, sharp right again, and you’re there. Good­-­morning.” And sure enough, if you follow his directions exactly, you will be there—right in the middle of Cherry­-­Tree Lane, where the houses run down one side and the Park runs down the other and the cherry­-­trees go dancing right down the ­middle. If you are looking for Number Seventeen—and it is more than likely that you will be, for this book is all about that particular house—you will very soon find it. To begin with, it is the smallest house in the Lane. And besides that, it is the only one that is rather dilapidated and needs a coat of paint. But Mr. Banks, who owns it, said to Mrs. Banks that she could have either a nice, clean, comfortable house or four children. But not both, for he couldn’t afford ­it. And after Mrs.

Banks had given the matter some consideration she came to the conclusion that she would rather have Jane, who was the eldest, and Michael, who came next, and John and Barbara, who were Twins and came last of all. So it was settled, and that was how the Banks family came to live at Number Seventeen, with Mrs. Brill to cook for them, and Ellen to lay the tables, and Robertson Ay to cut the lawn and clean the knives and polish the shoes and, as Mr. Banks always said, “to waste his time and my ­money.” And, of course, besides these there was Katie Nanna, who doesn’t really deserve to come into the book at all because, at the time I am speaking of, she had just left Number ­Seventeen. “Without by your leave or a word of warning. And what am I to do?” said Mrs. ­Banks. “Advertise, my dear,” said Mr. Banks, putting on his shoes. “And I wish Robertson Ay would go without a word of warning, for he has again polished one boot and left the other untouched. I shall look very ­lopsided.” “That,” said Mrs.

Banks, “is not of the least importance. You haven’t told me what I’m to do about Katie ­Nanna.” “I don’t see how you can do anything about her since she has disappeared,” replied Mr. Banks, “But if it were me—I mean I—well, I should get somebody to put in the Morning Paper the news that Jane and Michael and John and Barbara Banks (to say nothing of their Mother) require the best possible Nannie at the lowest possible wage and at once. Then I should wait and watch for the Nannies to queue up outside the front gate, and I should get very cross with them for holding up the traffic and making it necessary for me to give the policeman a shilling for putting him to so much trouble. Now I must be off. Whew, it’s as cold as the North Pole. Which way is the wind ­blowing?” And as he said that, Mr. Banks popped his head out of the window and looked down the Lane to Admiral Boom’s house at the corner. This was the grandest house in the Lane, and the Lane was very proud of it because it was built exactly like a ship.

There was a flagstaff in the garden, and on the roof was a gilt weathercock shaped like a ­telescope. “Ha!” said Mr. Banks, drawing in his head very quickly. “Admiral’s telescope says East Wind. I thought as much. There is frost in my bones. I shall wear two overcoats.” And he kissed his wife absentmindedly on one side of her nose and waved to the children and went away to the ­City. Now, the City was a place where Mr. Banks went every day—except Sundays, of course, and Bank Holidays—and while he was there he sat on a large chair in front of a large desk and made money. All day long he worked, cutting out pennies and shillings and half­-­crowns and threepenny­-­bits. And he brought them home with him in his little black bag. Sometimes he would give some to Jane and Michael for their money­-­boxes, and when he couldn’t spare any he would say, “The Bank is broken,” and they would know he hadn’t made much money that ­day. Well, Mr. Banks went off with his black bag, and Mrs.

Banks went into the drawing­-­room and sat there all day long writing letters to the papers and begging them to send some Nannies to her at once as she was waiting; and upstairs in the Nursery, Jane and Michael watched at the window and wondered who would come. They were glad Katie Nanna had gone, for they had never liked her. She was old and fat and smelt of barley­-­water. Anything, they thought, would be better than Katie Nanna—if not much ­better. When the afternoon began to die away behind the Park, Mrs. Brill and Ellen came to give them their supper and to bath the Twins. And after supper Jane and Michael sat at the window watching for Mr. Banks to come home, and listening to the sound of the East Wind blowing through the naked branches of the cherry­-­trees in the Lane. The trees themselves, turning and bending in the half light, looked as though they had gone mad and were dancing their roots out of the ­ground. “There he is!” said Michael, pointing suddenly to a shape that banged heavily against the gate. Jane peered through the gathering ­darkness. “That’s not Daddy,” she said.

“It’s somebody ­else.” Then the shape, tossed and bent under the wind, lifted the latch of the gate, and they could see that it belonged to a woman, who was holding her hat on with one hand and carrying a bag in the other. As they watched, Jane and Michael saw a curious thing happen. As soon as the shape was inside the gate the wind seemed to catch her up into the air and fling her at the house. It was as though it had flung her first at the gate, waited for her to open it, and then had lifted and thrown her, bag and all, at the front door. The watching children heard a terrific bang, and as she landed the whole house ­shook. “How funny! I’ve never seen that happen before,” said ­Michael. “Let’s go and see who it is!” said Jane, and taking Michael’s arm she drew him away from the window, through the Nursery and out on to the landing. From there they always had a good view of anything that happened in the front ­hall. Presently they saw their Mother coming out of the drawing­-­room with a visitor following her.

Jane and Michael could see that the newcomer had shiny black hair—“Rather like a wooden Dutch doll,” whispered Jane. And that she was thin, with large feet and hands, and small, rather peering blue ­eyes. &nbsp... Mary Poppins (en español) by P. L. Travers, Mary Shepard |, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® Copyright ©2006 Travers, P. L. All right reserved. ISBN: 0152058109 East Wind If you want to find Cherry-Tree Lane all you have to do is ask the Policeman at the cross-roads. He will push his helmet slightly to one side, scratch his head thoughtfully, and then he will point his huge white-gloved finger and say: "First to your right, second to your left, sharp right again, and you're there. Good-morning." And sure enough, if you follow his directions exactly, you will be there--right in the middle of Cherry-Tree Lane, where the houses run down one side and the Park runs down the other and the cherry-trees go dancing right down the middle.

If you are looking for Number Seventeen--and it is more than likely that you will be, for this book is all about that particular house--you will very soon find it. To begin with, it is the smallest house in the Lane. And besides that, it is the only one that is rather dilapidated and needs a coat of paint. But Mr. Banks, who owns it, said to Mrs. Banks that she could have either a nice, clean, comfortable house or four children. But not both, for he couldn't afford it. And after Mrs. Banks had given the matter some consideration she came to the conclusion that she would rather have Jane, who was the eldest, and Michael, who came next, and John and Barbara, who were Twins and came last of all. Soit was settled, and that was how the Banks family came to live at Number Seventeen, with Mrs. Brill to cook for them, and Ellen to lay the tables, and Robertson Ay to cut the lawn and clean the knives and polish the shoes and, as Mr.

Banks always said, "to waste his time and my money." And, of course, besides these there was Katie Nanna, who doesn't really deserve to come into the book at all because, at the time I am speaking of, she had just left Number Seventeen. "Without by your leave or a word of warning. And what am I to do?" said Mrs. Banks. "Advertise, my dear," said Mr. Banks, putting on his shoes. "And I wish Robertson Ay would go without a word of warning, for he has again polished one boot and left the other untouched. I shall look very lopsided." "That," said Mrs. Banks, "is not of the least importance. You haven't told me what I'm to do about Katie Nanna." "I don't see how you can do anything about her since she has disappeared," replied Mr. Banks, "But if it were me--I mean I--well, I should get somebody to put in the Morning Paper the news that Jane and Michael and John and Barbara Banks (to say nothing of their Mother) require the best possible Nannie at the lowest possible wage and at once.

Then I should wait and watch for the Nannies to queue up outside the front gate, and I should get very cross with them for holding up the traffic and making it necessary for me to give the policeman a shilling for putting him to so much trouble. Now I must be off. Whew, it's as cold as the North Pole. Which way is the wind blowing?" And as he said that, Mr. Banks popped his head out of the window and looked down the Lane to Admiral Boom's house at the corner. This was the grandest house in the Lane, and the Lane was very proud of it because it was built exactly like a ship. There was a flagstaff in the garden, and on the roof was a gilt weathercock shaped like a telescope. "Ha!" said Mr. Banks, drawing in his head very quickly. "Admiral's telescope says East Wind. I thought as much. There is frost in my bones. I shall wear two overcoats." And he kissed his wife absentmindedly on one side of her nose and waved to the children and went away to the City. Now, the City was a place where Mr.

Banks went every day--except Sundays, of course, and Bank Holidays--and while he was there he sat on a large chair in front of a large desk and made money. All day long he worked, cutting out pennies and shillings and half-crowns and threepenny-bits. And he brought them home with him in his little black bag. Sometimes he would give some to Jane and Michael for their money-boxes, and when he couldn't spare any he would say, "The Bank is broken," and they would know he hadn't made much money that day. Well, Mr. Banks went off with his black bag, and Mrs. Banks went into the drawing-room and sat there all day long writing letters to the papers and begging them to send some Nannies to her at once as she was waiting; and upstairs in the Nursery, Jane and Michael watched at the window and wondered who would come. They were glad Katie Nanna had gone, for they had never liked her. She was old and fat and smelt of barley-water. Anything, they thought, would be better than Katie Nanna--if not much better. When the afternoon began to die away behind the Park, Mrs.

Brill and Ellen came to give them their supper and to bath the Twins. And after supper Jane and Michael sat at the window watching for Mr. Banks to come home, and listening to the sound of the East Wind blowing through the naked branches of the cherry-trees in the Lane. The trees themselves, turning and bending in the half light, looked as though they had gone mad and were dancing their roots out of the ground. "There he is!" said Michael, pointing suddenly to a shape that banged heavily against the gate. Jane peered through the gathering darkness. "That's not Daddy," she said. "It's somebody else." Then the shape, tossed and bent under the wind, lifted the latch of the gate, and they could see that it belonged to a woman, who was holding her hat on with one hand and carrying a bag in the other. As they watched, Jane and Michael saw a curious thing happen. As soon as the shape was inside the gate the wind seemed to catch her up into the air and fling her at the house. It was as though it had flung her first at the gate, waited for her to open it, and then had lifted and thrown her, bag and all, at the front door.

The watching children heard a terrific bang, and as she landed the whole house shook. "How funny! I've never seen that happen before," said Michael. "Let's go and see who it is!" said Jane, and taking Michael's arm she drew him away from the window, through the Nursery and out on to the landing. From there they always had a good view of anything that happened in the front hall. Presently they saw their Mother coming out of the drawing-room with a visitor following her. Jane and Michael could see that the newcomer had shiny black hair--"Rather like a wooden Dutch doll," whispered Jane. And that she was thin, with large feet and hands, and small, rather peering blue eyes. "You'll find that they are very nice children," Mrs. Banks was saying. Michael's elbow gave a sharp dig at Jane's ribs. "And that they give no trouble at all," continued Mrs. Banks uncertainly, as if she herself didn't really believe what she was saying. They heard the visitor sniff as though she didn't either. "Now, about reference--" Mrs. Banks went on. "Oh, I make it a rule never to give references," said the other firmly. Mrs. Banks stared.

"But I thought it was usual," she said. "I mean--I understood people always did." "A very old-fashioned idea, to my mind," Jane and Michael heard the stern voice say. "Very old-fashioned. Quite out of date, as you might say." Now, if there was one thing Mrs. Banks did not like, it was to be thought old-fashioned. She just couldn't bear it. So she said quickly: "Very well, then. We won't bother about them. I only asked, of course, in case you--er--required it. The nursery is upstairs--" And she led the way towards the staircase, talking all the time, without stopping once. And because she was doing that Mrs. Banks did not notice what was happening behind her, but Jane and Michael, watching from the top landing, had an excellent view of the extraordinary thing the visitor now did. Certainly she followed Mrs. Banks upstairs, but not in the usual way. With her large bag in her hands she slid gracefully up the banisters, and arrived at the landing at the same time as Mrs. Banks. Such a thing, Jane and Michael knew, had never been done before.

Down, of course, for they had often done it themselves. But up--never! They gazed curiously at the strange new visitor. Copyright © 1981 by P. L. Travers Copyright 1934 by P. L. Travers Copyright renewed 1962 by P. L. Travers All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777. Continues... Excerpted from Mary Poppins by Travers, P. L. Copyright ©2006 by Travers, P. L.. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Question: If you want to find Cherry Tree Lane, all you have to do is ask the policeman at the cross roads
Answer: Mary Poppins